Feeling Sorry for Celia (8 page)

And he keeps on standing there, tipping his head sideways so it’s practically breaking off his neck, and says, ‘Do you enjoy writing essays?’

That’s a tricky one because I don’t think I’ve ever written an essay in my entire life. I usually just write a letter, explaining about how wrong it is to write essays.

So I say, ‘Not really.’

And he tips his head up and down and goes, ‘hmm’ and closes his eyes like I just told him something very meaningful. Like he’s my psychiatrist and I just told him a dream about my childhood or whatever. You know?

So he goes, ‘If you ever want to come and chat with me about your essays, do.’

I pretend to be really glad about that, and then I say again, more slowly this time, ‘I have to catch the Glenorie bus’ and he finally seems to click and goes ‘oh!’ and lets me go.

But it’s too late, of course.

I miss my bus.

If you miss the Glenorie bus, you have to wait one hour and take the Castle Hill bus, and then change onto the Kenthurst bus, and
then
you have to walk half an hour to get home.

Fantastic. All so I can reassure Mr Bother it that his English classes are good. I should have just recommended he go see the school counsellor if he really wants to deal with his insecurities.

So I finally get home and Dad’s already there, sitting on the front verandah, trying to play with Lochie, and Lochie’s looking at him like: ‘Excuse me, do I know you?’ and Dad’s trying to get Lochie to fetch sticks, which Lochie doesn’t do, because it’s below his dignity, and Dad goes, ‘Hey, I thought all collies fetched sticks! Guess he’s not so bright as we thought, huh?’

And I feel like punching him on his stupid nose.

For one thing, Lochie is about one hundred times smarter than my dad.

I don’t have time to take a shower or iron a dress, so I just throw on jeans and my white t-shirt which I know are completely wrong, and my father pretends not to notice but you can see his face go into a kind of ‘whoops’ expression when he sees me. But he doesn’t say anything, he just drives me halfway across Sydney to this
snazzy
restaurant.

Our table has one of those white paper tablecloths which makes me think ‘why can’t they afford real tablecloths if they’re so snooty?’ and blue and white checked napkins which make me think we should be eating hamburgers. It also has a magic blue-glass bottle in the middle, which I like, with a green candle stuck in the top of it, and candle wax making a
big lumpy mess down the sides of the bottle, that makes me want to scrape it all off. Plus a big chunky glass ash tray which I feel like ripping off, only I don’t, because I don’t have a handbag to put it in. (Also because I don’t actually
want
a big glass ashtray.) (Also because I’m not actually the kind of person who rips things off from restaurants. Are you?)

So I order the chicken in orange sauce and Dad orders the spaghetti carbonara, and Dad fills up my glass with disgusting red wine, and we start having our stupid father– daughter dinner conversations.

You know, like my serviette’s falling off my lap and I’m reaching down to pick it up at the same time as Dad’s going, ‘Take a look at those picture windows, would you?’ Or I’ve just taken a big bite of chicken which is caught on a bit of bone in my mouth and I’m trying to get it untangled with my tongue and Dad’s going, ‘What do you think of my tie?’ and flipping it up and down in my face.

After a while we stopped talking and just ate, which is better, but embarrassing. Also I was really annoyed at the sound of my dad eating the spaghetti carbonara. He kept pushing his fork around in it, and it makes this disgusting wet, gooey noise, like people kissing or rubbing their eyes. And anyway, Dad can’t keep his mouth shut for more than thirty seconds. He’s always saying things out of nowhere like ‘let’s go crazy, hey?’

What are you supposed to say when your father says ‘let’s go crazy?’

‘All right then, Dad. Good idea. Let’s’?

I’m never sure whether he says this stuff because he’s got some kind of disease from living in Canada which means you can’t help saying lines from American movies, or
because he thinks that’s the way to communicate with teenagers. I have noticed him watching me very closely after he does it, as if he’s expecting me to respond in some teenager-style way. Like give him a high five or something.

If all that embarrassing stuff wasn’t enough, two especially stupid things happened while we were at the restaurant.

One thing happened when we had just got our desserts. I had the chocolate mousse (which I always have) and Dad had rice pudding (which, excuse me, but why would anybody have? It’s like eating cold porridge for dinner), and there was suddenly this big honking, gasping noise behind me, like someone was choking on a lobster.

I look around and this huge bald man’s standing there, with a face like a pink balloon about to pop, and he’s grinning at my dad and making weird noises, but it’s not because he’s choking on a lobster, it’s because he’s so excited to see my dad. He finally stops making the noises, and goes, ‘ALBERT CLARRY! You old NINCOMPOOP you!’

I look back at my dad and his face has suddenly gone even pinker than the fat man’s face, and he’s got a spoonful of disgusting rice pudding about to enter his mouth, and it’s just frozen there. One piece of rice touching his lip.

The big man doesn’t seem to notice. He just shouts, ‘And who’s this lovely little lady?’ putting his big pink hands on my shoulders. Really nice.

And Dad goes, ‘This is Elizabeth.’

Then Dad looks straight at the window and starts mumbling away, ‘Lovely place this, isn’t it? Really nice. An old favourite of mine. Same old standards though, lovely picture windows.’

So they both talk about the picture windows for a while
(if you can imagine anybody being able to stretch picture windows across a five minute conversation) and then the man goes.

And my dad looks completely relieved. Like, he just sags down in his chair.

So, I guess he’s embarrassed about me.

He didn’t say, ‘This is my
daughter
, Elizabeth.’

He didn’t tell me who the man was.

All he did was say ‘This is Elizabeth’ and look straight out the window.

Anyway, I guess I’ll get over it.

The other stupid thing happened when I was drinking the froth off my cappuccino and Dad was watching me over the top of his double espresso. It was my fault. I don’t even know why I said it. It just jumped out of my mouth.

I said this: ‘I want to meet Veronica’s son.’

Maybe that doesn’t seem like a strange thing to you – asking to meet your stepbrother. Which is what he is, you know. He’s the son of my father’s wife, right? So you’d think it’d be a perfectly normal thing to ask for. My father moved out when I was a baby, and he married Veronica only a few months after that, and she already had a son then – so she’s been my
stepmother
and he’s been my
stepbrother
for practically all my life. But I’ve never met either of them. I don’t even know what they look like, if you can believe it. They’ve never come to Australia and I’ve never been to Canada. And for some reason my dad and I never talk about them. I used to ask when I was little, but my dad always made stupid jokes. Like I’d say, ‘What’s Veronica like?’ and Dad’d say, ‘She’s just like a great big pink and purple hippopotamus!’
So after a while I stopped asking. And he never talked about
them, and it became kind of like a rule that we don’t talk about them.

So it was breaking the rule, see?

My dad seemed to think so anyway. He just snapped out, straight away: ‘He’s in Canada!’ like I was a complete lunatic.

I said, ‘Well, maybe I could write to him?’

I don’t know why I never thought of that before. I think I only thought of it now because of all the letter-writing with you.

But Dad seemed to think that was just a stupid idea. He started going on and on about how busy things are in Canada and how it would only be a disappointment to me and how you shouldn’t mix your drinks without an aspirin at the ready (if you know what that was supposed to mean please let me know).

So I just gave up and slurped the rest of my cappuccino, really noisily.

I guess the dinner proved two things: one, my dad’s embarrassed of me in front of his friends, two, my dad’s embarrassed about me in front of his family. I suppose it’s no wonder, considering how I slurp my coffee.

The chicken was nice though.

Lochie is fast asleep and my leg’s got pins and needles, and it’s starting to get really cold out here, and I’ve been writing to you for too long, and you’re probably sick of me.

So I have to go now. But I hope you have an excellent day today.

Love,

Elizabeth.

Dear Elizabeth,

GUESS WHAT?
I know what you look like
.

You said in your last letter that you catch the Glenorie bus, which I didn’t know before, but now I know, and one of my best friends catches the Glenorie bus. So I asked him if there were many people from Ashbury on it, and he says there’s only two. He says there’s a guy from Ashbury who sits up the front and stands up when old people get on the bus, and carries running shoes laced together around his shoulder, so that’s not you. And there’s a girl, so
that must be you
. He says you’ve got a cute face and kind of pointy ears.

IT MUST BE YOU. Is it? He also says there used to be a fairy princess girl, with long feathery blonde hair, who used to sit with you, only he hasn’t seen her for ages. Is that Celia? He said he used to watch you two, and Celia always looked tiny and not-quite-there, like she was just about to float through the bus window and fly away like a kite. And you always looked like a pixie, or an elf, about to cast some magic spell over the bus. (Don’t take any notice of him. That’s what he’s like.)

But I’m glad you’ve got magic powers. Maybe you can use them to help me, cos I feel like someone’s put a spell on me now. Derek keeps hassling me to you know, go all the way. I don’t know how long I can keep saying no for. It’d be fine if it wasn’t that I want it, just as much as he does, maybe even more. (Whatever you do, don’t tell him that I said that.) How come I have to be in charge of stopping him? I don’t get how I can keep being grown-up and saying, ’no, we have to wait’, when every time he touches me I feel like I’m going crazy.

Anyway, I’m sorry to talk about my problems when you’ve got your own things to worry about. The dinner with your dad sounded as stupid as usual. But I thought of these things that you should remember:

Lots of love,

Christina

Elizabeth,

You should be
just perfect
for advising Christina on what to do when her boyfriend wants sex.

You haven’t got a clue what to say, have you?

Ever had sex, Liz? Ever even
kissed a boy
? Ever held a guy’s hand, ever been asked out by a guy, ever had a guy
wink at you
?